I Put A Spell on You
by MLaw
Summary: A brooding Illya retreats to his dark happy place after a difficult mission and Napoleon is determined to bring him back. A pre-saga story.
1. Chapter 1

The memories of what had taken place in the shadows on their last mission pulled Illya Kuryakin into an uncomfortable mood as he lay in the dark, curled up on his old sofa listening to the moody sounds of Miles Davis. When the song was done he rose slowly, cat-like, reaching for another of the vinyl albums stacked carefully beside the phonograph. He stroked the records edge, holding it carefully, caressing it like a lover as he placed it on the turntable.

The Russian refused to convert to those magnetic cassette recordings, as they seemed to lack the tactile sensation that only a record album gave him when he held it in that brief moment of anticipation.

Though a scientist and enamored of technology, vinyl was a near anachronism he held onto with a hidden passion.

The voice of Nina Simone filled the room now, her deep dulcet tones singing

"_Ne me quitte pas__, a_ track on her "_I Put A Spell On You" album._

That was what this music did to him, allowing him to retreat to another world, spellbound safe and secure.

"_Ne me quitte pas, Il faut oublier, tout peut s'oublier...Don't leave me, we have to forget, everything can be forgotten. That is flying away already Forget the time, the misunderstandings and the time that was lost, Trying to understand how these hours can be forgotten. Those that are killing sometimes with whys that hurt like punches, the heart of happiness..."_

Those words cut deep, like the wounds he'd received this last time...

The spell was broken by the chirp of a communicator and familiar words he'd heard spoken so many times before.

"Illya I need you."


	2. Chapter 2

"Kuryakin here." His voice was dull, giving away his mood.

"Illya, can you come over to my place?" Napoleon asked.

"Is it an emergency?"

"No, but if you could get here as soon as you can. Out"

He put the communicator down on the coffee table with a sigh and thought there was no rest for the weary. Duty called, or more precisely his friend did and there was no question he'd go.

Just then a twang of pain struck him. Illya rose slowly from his sofa thinking his avoidance of the post-mission checkup had possibly been a mistake. The wounds across his back inflicted upon him as a means to make his partner talk were causing more discomfort than he'd anticipated.

He had dry swallowed a few aspirin tablets once he had arrived home, washing away the bitter taste with a shot of ice cold vodka from the bottle he kept in the refrigerator freezer. Not a good combination but at the moment he didn't care.

The burning sensation on his back was getting worse, forcing him to go into the bathroom, carefully peeling off his undershirt to reveal some of the welts were redder and swollen. They were most likely becoming infected.

Illya opened his medicine cabinet, spotting the bottle of ampicillin tablets prescribed to him just over a month ago, and as usual never took. This time he opted to take them, popping one of the pills and washing it down with a glass of water, hoping they would prevent a stint in a hospital bed in medical.

He limped into the shower, and as the hot water poured down his sore back, staring down at the scars that dotted his body, his thoughts drifted to the tragedy that had occurred on their mission.

Illya pictured her pretty face, filling him with sadness. She was a lovely woman, dark-haired with green eyes. A student of the arts. Sylvae Toussant, sweet and virginal in all respects except one. It was rare that he found himself instantly attracted to a woman, and could count the number on one hand. Had he the opportunity, he would have explored that intimacy with her, but the mission came first.

She was delightfully interesting, her laughter charming, like the tinkling of small bells. And now that sound would never be heard again.

She oversaw a gallery in New York that was showing paintings and artwork stolen by the Nazis during the war. They were to be on display for a limited time, loaned by their original owners and the museums from where they had been taken. Priceless paintings by _Van Gough, _ _Johannes Vermeer, Degas, Bartolome Esteban Murillo, Bartolome, Cézanne _and even the altarpiece of _Veit Stoss _and a statue by _Michelangelo._ These priceless pieces had not been seen in public since before World War II. U.N.C.L.E. discovered these treasures were to be the target of art thieves, and he and Napoleon were sent to prevent the theft. It was the more transportable paintings the ring of thieves were after, perhaps for themselves like the _Recollectors_...

Napoleon came up with a brilliant plan and hid the artwork, not even telling his partner but then, both he and Illya were taken captive. The would-be thieves beat Illya in hopes of forcing Solo to reveal where he'd put the paintings. Little did they know, they were all hanging right there in the gallery under the thieves' noses, covered over by other modernist paintings of much lesser value and of no significant interest.

The U.N.C.L.E. agents managed to escape with Sylvae's help, but ordered her to leave the gallery and to get away. They thought she had done so, but instead she hid herself in the office, thinking naively she could somehow be of further assistance to them.

The well meaning Sylvae stepped out of her hiding place right into the middle of a gun battle, taking a bullet that was meant for the Russian. She died as Illya held her in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

Illya claimed he felt no guilt; she had been warned and paid the ultimate price for not listening. In spite of what was said, Napoleon suspected her loss weighed heavily upon his friend's weary shoulders, but the Russian was a master of masking his feelings, showing no outward signs of what was churning within him.

When Illya was an agent with the GRU he'd been taught not to care about the deaths of others, they were merely collateral damage and simply to be dismissed. His fellow operatives did that, or seemed to, but Illya Kuryakin felt the forbidden feelings of regret and grief. Innocents were his weakness. Napoleon knew that was one of his weaknesses as well, but a weakness he'd never give up.

Illya Kuryakin had grown up surrounded by death, as it followed him everywhere. This time it took an innocent instead of him and that was something he would never become accustomed to. Perhaps that was why he was offered to U.N.C.L.E...he cared. Though he tried to hide it from his superiors as he suspected they sensed it. He was an unseasoned agent and his shortcomings in their eyes made him more expendable.

Alexander Waverly's words to him when he accepted the position with U.N.C.L.E. really didn't sink in at the time; the man telling him they would prove his Russian superiors wrong about him. *

He had been given a choice, go to America or stay with GRU, or at least it appeared like a choice. If he said no, it would have meant the gulag or simply death, if he said yes it meant giving up his country, and no doubt being a Russian in a America would mean eventual death as well. It was a matter of do it or die, that was not a choice. He went with U.N.C.L.E. thinking at least his odds of survival were slightly better.

He was pleasantly surprised upon joining U.N.C.L.E. and Waverly's instincts were right about Illya; he flourished to become the number two agent in Section II behind his partner and friend Napoleon Solo.

.

Illya was still out of sorts as he limped down the two flights of stairs in his apartment building to the street below. He hailed a taxi with a loud whistle and climbed into it with a long sigh, mumbling the address of Napoleon's building to the driver.

.

* ref "The Last Goodbye"


	4. Chapter 4

Twenty minutes later Illya stood in front of Solo's penthouse door, opulent digs for a spy whose annual pay barely put him in a lower-middle class income bracket. Napoleon's home had been his inheritance along with a sizeable trust fund from his beloved Aunt Amy.

He could have quit his life of espionage and lived quite comfortably, but he simply wasn't ready to do that. He craved the action, the danger and lived vicariously through his work, keeping the loneliness at bay by bedding beautiful women.

.

Napoleon waited patiently for Illya to arrive; he knew without a doubt that he would. The Russian had no one, no family, friends... only his partner and that worried Napoleon more often than not. Thoughts of Illya's loneliness sent his mind drifting to his own existence.

He once believed he'd have a life with his beloved Clara, but she rejected him because he wouldn't give up his work. It was too late now to try to rekindle a life with her, though his trust fund gave him the means to actually walk away from it all. She was married now. End of story.

Illya had put it succinctly after the Terbut Affair..."_Just think how life would have been had you not met Clara. The love that you felt for her, the joy of being with her never would have been. Yet by knowing her, though she was lost to you, your life was all the more richer." * _Napoleon sighed deeply. That sort of wealth he could have done without as it only made him feel more lonely, in spite of Illya's words making sense.

Napoleon Solo had few real friends, some buddies from his army days, and Illya of course, who had become more like a brother. That was enough for him, and he hoped their friendship was enough for Illya.

.

He set out a pair of lowball glasses on the bar, opening his decanter of Scotch and pouring himself a double on the rocks. A bottle of Stoli he had for Illya would stay in the fridge until the Russian arrived.

He paced, sipping his drink as thoughts about their last mission now filled his head. Illya being tortured again, and taking the brunt of the abuse for him. The Russian's selflessness took its toll on both of them, but perhaps more mentally than physically this time. When they had parted this morning at headquarters he sensed his partner slipping into one of his dark, melancholy moods.

He heard the familiar knock on the door, and taking a deep breath, prepared himself for whatever might come out of the mouth of his partner or not.

Illya was a man of few words and did not like to be probed when it came to emotions, especially those of the heart. Napoleon knew that he'd have to tread lightly if his friend was indeed feeling as down as he suspected he was.

.

* ref "Things are what they are"


	5. Chapter 5

Illya would retreat into that other world of his, one filled with his music and darkened rooms. The loss of an innocent hit him harder than usual as he liked this one, a lot. Lowering his guard, allowing himself a rare personal connection to a woman made her death hit all that harder.

Napoleon's head tilted to the familiar coded knock on the door as Illya let himself in, resetting the alarm on the keypad.

"Vodka's in the freezer."

"I know." Illya answered with a dullness to his voice. Ignoring the lowball glass set out for him, he grabbed a tumbler from the kitchen cabinet, filling it halfway with his chilled vodka and headed to his partners sofa, flopping down on it. He lifted the glass, nearly emptying it.

"Have a little vodka, won't you."

Illya snickered at him, filling the glass again as he paused, staring into it before he drank again.

Napoleon watched the scene unfold, confirming his suspicions about the man's mood.

"So what did you need me for?" Illya suddenly asked, taking a large gulp of his drink.

"I needed you to be here with me." He answered, swallowing the rest of his scotch then filling the glass again.

"And for what may I ask?" He downed the rest of his drink as well, pouring another one for himself.

"Better be careful tovarisch, you're going to get drunk." Napoleon evaded the question, suspecting the man had already been drinking.

Illya looked rather indignant. "No self respecting Russian gets drunk on vodka, it merely _relaxes_ us. And what of it if I choose to get drunk?"

The contents of the vodka bottle diminished quickly and it wasn't long before Illya slipped down from the sofa, sitting cross-legged on the floor and having abandoned the tumbler, swigged directly from the bottle.

Napoleon hadn't seen Illya drink like this in a long time. There were several ways he could go; he could become argumentative, he could close up ever more and retreat into himself, or he could have a reasonable conversation and sort things out.

Napoleon knew he'd have to tread lightly as saying the wrong words, asking the wrong questions would set the Russian off.

"Illya, talk to me?" He asked quietly.

"I thought that was what we were doing." That response came with another swig from the bottle.

"You know what I mean."

Illya sighed deeply, "Yes I do." With an unsteady hand, the put the vodka bottle on the coffee table, then hoisted himself up onto the sofa as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. His head hung down, saying nothing and at first Napoleon thought his partner had passed out.

"Illya, you still with me?"

"I am always with you," came a mumbled reply. Illya lifted his head, looking his partner directly in the eyes.

Napoleon smiled at that, as the remark told him Illya hadn't slipped too far yet.


	6. Chapter 6

Napoleon ran his fingers through his hair, forcing that stray lock that always worked its way free to droop to the middle of his forehead back into place.

"Look I know Sylvae's death is really bothering you. Do you want to talk about it?"

Illya's face remained placid in spite of the fact that he was annoyed at his partner encroaching upon personal space...his feelings. Now he knew why his Napoleon had called him over.

"What do you think?" He sneered, stiffening up that lower lip of his. His eyes were heavy with drunkenness and he did not want to have this discussion.

"Come on, I know she got to you. You let yourself get close, surely her death is eating at you. She saved you at the cost of her own life."

Illya gave him a hard cold blue stare. "Sylvae was warned, what she did was her own decision. I did not ask her to put herself between me and that bullet."

It was not surprising to Solo that his partner spoke with a harshness in his voice, he knew it was part of Illya's defence mechanism. That chilling aloofness was how he kept people at bay but Napoleon knew him well enough that this manipulative ploy wouldn't work on him. When his partner made up his mind to do or not to do something, it was near impossible to convince him otherwise. Still Napoleon was going to try anyway.

"So you're not upset about it, yeah right." The American challenged.

Illya's face went red. "Of course I'm upset about it, _chyort vozʹmi_dammit! _I am not without feelings simply because I do not show them. I know it was not my fault that she died, yet..."

"Yet she died for you. She pulled the same selfless move that you pull on me all the time, which by the way I don't like you doing."

"It is my job to protect you as CEA and heir apparent to Waverly."

"No, it's not. Just like it wasn't Sylvae's job to protect you."

Illya lowered his head; the vodka definitely starting to work its magic on him. He was loosening up, but not in the way he wanted to be as he suddenly dropped his head to his hands, letting out a barely perceptible sob.

Illya was different from his partner when it came to the female of the species, he was not libido driven and needed to establish a bit of a connection before he'd go to bed with a woman. The relationship wouldn't last long, given his lack of availability because of his work, the lying and secrecy. One thing Illya did was to keep his personal and work lives separate. He rarely if ever dated anyone from headquarters.

"It really is my fault she is dead, I should have made sure she was safe. Why could she not have listened?" He slammed his fist on the arm of the sofa.

There was a tone of despondency in Illya's voice. He was finally being truthful and had lowered his own little iron curtain.

"Napoleon, I have danced with death in one way or another since I was a child, yet he does not take me. He steals the ones I care about, Sylvae...I should have taken that bullet not her. In Russia I was told to accept collateral damage as part of an agent's life, but I never could do it. I think the Directorate knew that and sensed it as a weakness, that is one of the reasons why I suspect they were glad to be rid of me."

"Illya, the Soviet Union's loss was U.N.C.L.E.'s gain, and just remember buddy boy, I'm still here," Napoleon chuckled." and I don't plan on leaving you any time soon. Just to remind you it was Sylvae's _own _fault. She was warned as you said, her death was her own _misguided_ fault."

Napoleon was being realistic, yet he too regretted the loss of an innocent, but he couldn't let his partner see that right now. He watched and listened, making sure he hadn't pushed his friend too far.


	7. Chapter 7

Illya quickly brushed his eyes with his fingers, hiding the tears that nearly escaped, and sending his emotions back to where he kept them them hidden behind his wall. Then as if a switch had been flicked; he flashed Napoleon one of his sour looks.

"So you are insinuating that I am misguided in my actions to protect you?"

Napoleon paused, finding this was opening that would enable him to divert the conversation."Yes. I can take care of myself well enough."He downed his drink, pouring another scotch for himself, this time straight up

"Right," smirked the blond as he ran his fingers through his own hair, making it more a mess than neater." Shall I count the number of times that I have saved your sorry _zhopa?_"

Napoleon was pleased the topic had turned his friend from his woes. " I suppose you're right and I appreciate you saving my ass but it doesn't mean I can't worry about you doing it."

They sat together drinking into the night, commiserating and sharing their thoughts. Whether it was due to the drink, the company or the timing, Napoleon didn't know, but Illya opened up just a bit.

Somehow Napoleon had gotten his partner to laugh, a good hearty one and that was a positive sign. His stories and tone of voice seemed to keep his moody Russian friend spellbound until it was finally time to head off to bed.

It was three in the morning when Napoleon helped Illya to his feet, lifting him from the sofa; the two of them staggering to the spare bedroom. He slipped off his partner's shoes, and pulled the black turtleneck over his head, knowing that Illya would be asleep within minutes. As soon as his partner's head hit the pillow he heard him lightly snoring.

Napoleon looked at the raw welts on Illya's back and clicked his tongue. Illya would avoid medical at all costs if he could help it and it looked like this time he had. He didn't like going there himself, but when he needed treatment he would go...Illya however, wouldn't. He had an almost obsessive loathing of anything related to doctors, perhaps it was from things done to him in the Soviet Union, but those were details his partner refused to share with him. There were a lot of things in that category, his past, his family. He'd close up tighter than a clam when asked.

Napoleon tried to steady himself as he walked to the bathroom, retrieving an antibiotic cream from the medicine cabinet. He returned, finding Illya hadn't moved a muscle, and proceeded to gently apply the cream to the wounds on his back, hoping he wouldn't startle him and be punched in the face for his efforts.

When finished, he wiped his hands on a towel and then slowly lifted a blanket over the sleeping Russian.

"_Spacibo moooy brat_thank you my brother. Thank you for unerstanding...and cepting me the way I am. I know I am not easy to..._Illya slurred, then passed out before finishing his thought.

"Any time, chum," he whispered.

Napoleon wandered into the living room, picking up the nearly empty bottle of Stoli from the coffee table and taking it back to the refrigerator, He was amazed at Illya's capacity to drink that much of the stuff and not be incoherent.

Maybe he was right, the vodka let him relax. Illya did that rarely...oh he went through the motions, giving the appearance he was taking it easy, but he was never truly relaxed, but then again no agent ever allowed himself to do that.

There was alway that feeling creeping around, making their senses tingle, keeping them on edge and following them like a shadow that was on the fringe, staying just out of view.

Thoughts of his partner were still running through Napoleon's head as he finished cleaning up, and he sensed that ever present feeling, warning him like a shiver, reminding him to be vigilant even in his own home.

He paused, double checking the alarm system one more time before finally shuffling off to the comfort of his bed.


	8. Chapter 8

Napoleon kicked off his shoes, opting not to shed his clothing as he was too drunk to care. He fell forward, nestlied himself in the soft down quilt, that covered his bed and closed his eyes, but sleep did not take him as quickly as it did his partner. His head was swimming from the scotch, and he lay there thinking about the things he and Illya had talked about over course of the night. He knew he'd have one hell of a hangover when he woke up, but the price was worth it.

They discussed both being men of dedication not only to their job, but loyal to each other as well. Theirs was a trusting relationship beyond friendship, they knew that now. There was love between them and they would go to the ends of the earth to protect each other. It was as simple as that, "_love conquers all_," Napoleon whispered. He definitely loved that stubborn Russian.

He hoped having giving Illya reassurances had brought a bit of comfort for the pain he felt. Yet it was an answer Napoleon would never know for sure as is his partner, no matter how close they'd become, was still enigmatic. Regardless, it was better than letting the man sit home alone, listening to those worn records of his and sink into a melancholia that could last for weeks.

He knew Illya well enough in that respect, though the music was part of the place where he retreated, it wasn't good for him to go there too often when he was down. At least he was safe here and that was the most important thing at the moment.

Tomorrow, or rather today would be another day; they'd head out on assignment, just a little bit hung over and life for them would go on as it always had...saving the world one day at time. Discussion of what had happened on their last mission and Sylvae Toussant would not be brought up again.

Napoleon knew he'd done the right thing with his little ruse. He'd put a spell of sorts on the man, but Illya he supposed did the same to him. Friendship and love had a way of doing that.

This thought allowed him to finally close his eyes and drift off into a dreamless sleep.

.

A familiar communicator chirp called Napoleon awake with a start and looking at the clock on his night table, he was surprised that it was eight in the morning.

"Good morning Mr. Solo. I trust you and Mr. Kuryakin will be able to report to headquarters within the hour and in _reasonable condition_." Mr. Waverly said with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"Yes sir." Napoleon muttered, still suffering the after effects of too much scotch and not enough sleep.

"Good, then I will expect to see both of you in my office. I have an situation that needs your attention. Out."

"Damn," he muttered, how did he know Illya was here?" Napoleon crawled out of bed, put on a pot of coffee, hopped into the shower and once dressed and ready, he went in rouse his partner. Illya sober or drunk never took that long to get ready.

The guest bed was empty with no sign of his partner.

Napoleon's communicator came to life again. "Solo here. " He answered crisply, taking a gulp of black coffee.

"Good morning my friend," Illya answered, his voice sounding more upbeat. "Are you ready to go? I am waiting in a taxi in front of your building."

Napoleon scratched his head. "How the hell..." he started to say. "Forget it, never mind. I'm on my way,"

Illya greeted him brightly from the back seat of the taxi when he arrived and slipped in beside him.

Napoleon peered at his partner's face, taking note that he looked rested and refreshed. "Hey, why is it I feel like crap and you don't even look like you had a drink last night?"

"As I told you no self-respecting Russian gets drunk on vodka...or at least admits to it." He snickered. "I was however very, very...relaxed."

"But why no hangover?"

"Napoleon we Russians are raised on vodka, I have been drinking it since I was a child, and developed a tolerance for it."

"Oh so that's your secret?" Napoleon laughed.

"Shhhush. Do not tell anyone." Illya whispered." I have a reputation to uphold."

Napoleon was shocked, Illya Kuryakin, the man of mystery, had just freely given up one of his little secrets. "Perhaps that talk had done some good after all?"

"Don't worry _tovarisch,_ your secrets will always be safe with me, Scouts honor." Napoleon made a sign of the cross over his heart but refrained from saying the requisite words, 'cross my heart and hope to die.'

"I know." The Russian flashed his crooked smile."Now shall we go save the world?"

FINIS


End file.
